Strength in Numbers
by writingisjustwhatido
Summary: During some of Peeta's darkest hours being tortured in the Capital he finds a source of comfort in an unlikely place.  By the way I don't own any of the characters of the Hunger Games even if I wish I did.


They pushed me into the cell roughly and I hit the ground hard. I didn't even have enough strength to try and break the fall. Crawling on my hands and feet, dragging myself across the filthy floor, I make it to the corner. I huddle into a ball, wrapping my arms around my knees and bringing them to my chest. Wounds reopen and my muscles scream in protest but I can't change my position. My arms are not only securing my legs but holding me together, desperately trying to keep me from falling apart. Making myself seem smaller, foolishly hoping I would be overlooked. Using my legs to shield my vital organs, to protect myself any way I could.

I am rocking back and forth now, my hands over my ears but unable to shut the world out. The footsteps of the guards echo down the hall signaling their departure. Their absence does nothing to comfort me. I am trapped in my dark huddle, imprisoned inside my own head. Over and over I relive the torture, the unspeakable things they did to me. Even my own imagination has turned on me and I cannot tear the thoughts from my mind.

I don't know how much time has passed before I am able to move again or where I found the strength to do it. But I manage to lift my head and release my legs to the floor, the metal and plastic of my artificial leg groaning and squeaking. Leaning my back against the wall to stay upright, I force myself to breathe. In, then out. In, then out. The air is stale, burning my nose as it enters, and my breathing is ragged. But I don't stop. Something inside of me keeps going. I don't even know why I want to stay alive. Surely death would hold far less pain than what I am enduring now. It would be so easy too. Just stop the laborious intake of oxygen, it would be a relief. However, I may have lost everything else but my fighting instinct still pushes me. Giving up is not an option, I have to keep going at all costs, whether I want to or not.

All of a sudden the sounds of stomping boots ring through the air. Despite my desire to stay strong, I shrink into the shadows, hiding from the monsters that have caused me so much harm. They have not come for me though, but to bring in another prisoner. A broken body is flung into the cell next to me. My heart contracts in fear as the guards stop in front of me. The shortest of the three spits in my face, but then they turn to leave. The relief is overwhelming I will be spared for another moment. Bringing my arm up to wipe my face, I am startled by the sight of it.

The skin is so bruised that none of the original color shows through. It is as if I am entirely blue, yellow, green, brown, purple, red, and black. A gruesome rainbow. Scars, scabs, and open wounds. Some are infected and ooze thick green pus that gives off a horrific stench. Dirt is caked in every crevice and line of my skin. My fingernails are torn and bloody. Burns and scorch marks form bizarre patterns and shapes. The rest of my body is the same. Bones are more prominent than they have been in my life; I can't remember the last time I was fed. My lips are cracked and dry from dehydration. Hair matted in clumps and tangles. Shivers wrack my body as I am dressed in nothing but a jumpsuit so torn I might as well be naked. The odor coming off of me brings tears to my eyes at times. I haven't bathed in longer than I know. I haven't been able to wash of the vomit or the blood or the dirt.

I am shaken out of my observations at the sounds coming from the chamber next to me. Horrible, choking sobs each one louder than the last. I pull myself from the back wall up to the bars at the front. Wrapping my hands around a bar, I try to figure out who it is. My legs give out under me and I am thrown against the wall. The door of my cell swings open and I stare at it uncomprehendingly. Somehow they must have forgotten to lock it and when I fell against it, it was pushed open. I could leave. I could escape this hell right now. I almost laugh. How could I make a run for it when I don't even have the strength to stand?

The person keeps making the noises. Everything I know about humanity is begging me to go find them, to comfort them. I don't know how I can help them when I am so broken myself. But I have to try. Already I know there is no way I will be able to walk. Again I find myself crawling. What can only be a distance of a few feet feels like miles. Still I make it and bring myself to look at who is inside the cell. Their hands are on the ground, fingers splayed, seemingly supporting the entire body. Their back is arched in pain and is covered in the same patterns of suffering as my own. The emaciated figure's shaved head is faced downward. A tremor rips through their body releasing an inhuman scream and throwing their head back. Despite the darkness, their face is easy to see. Eyes squeezed shut, teeth clenched, nostrils flaring, features distorted in agony. Shock almost knocks me over. I know this person.

Johanna Mason, District 7 victor. A fellow victor, one of the strongest among us, so beaten down. I remember seeing her on television when I was younger. She had frightened me. A ruthless killer, cunning, incredibly clever. Fierce, with a fire that burned so brightly inside of her it shone through. Seeing her in her present state was impossible to comprehend. "Johanna," I whispered, my voice hoarse and weak. Her head whipped around. She growled, expecting guards. Confusion spread across her face at the sight of me. "That you, Lover Boy?" she asked. I flinched at the name and the rough sound of her voice. "Peeta, I think you meant Peeta." The Capital was the reason for the nickname, though indirectly, and I wanted nothing to do with them.

"How did you get out?" Johanna questioned. "Some genius forgot to lock my cage," I replied. A wild thought appeared in my head. Tentatively I pulled on the door to her cell. It opened. Johanna barked out a sharp sound of surprise. "I have a felling someone is getting fired today. It shouldn't come as a shock though considering how bad they are at this job," I said. Johanna was sobbing again back in her huddled position. Guilt and regret stabbed me in the chest as I realized I was the reason for her most recent episode. Electrocution was one of the main methods being used for her torture. The word shock must have brought it fresh to her mind.

I dragged myself through the door. "I am so sorry," I murmured but kept my distance, knowing that when I was in that state I was completely unpredictable. After a while Johanna was able to calm herself down. "I'm so sorry." She couldn't respond, only looked at me with huge, terrified, pain-filled eyes. Impulsively, surprising us both, I reached out and grabbed her hand. She looked down at our intertwined fingers, unsure how to react. "I know normally you would kick my butt for doing that. But under the circumstances I think you need the comfort," I said. She just stared at me for a minute. Then she took my other hand in hers. "I'm not the only one feeling the pain," she whispered solemnly. "You might not be showing it right now but you need strength too."

We looked at each other. This nightmare was happening to both of us. Neither could rescue the other and this walk had to be taken alone. But now, in this moment, we could bear it together, leaning on each other's shoulders, continuing the fight to survive. I wrapped my arms around her and she did the same. It was an act of survival. We needed to be as close to each other as possible. Both of us knew without a doubt that this would result in horrible punishment. But we were no strangers to pain. For now it was worth it. To feel the beat of another person's heart. To give the thought that maybe, in all this agony and hopelessness it might not all be over. That just maybe, we might be strong enough to get through this. That there was more to the world than pain and fear. That we could beat this. That no matter how dark the present seems, life is always, always worth fighting for.


End file.
